I leaned back, put my weight into it, and gave a heave that should have sent him stumbling. He didn't even vibrate. He just stared at me, his expression as frigid as a winter morning while we both stood there, red-faced and rigid with stubbornness, essentially playing a game of warehouse merchandise chicken.
“Fine,” I snapped, my voice tight with the effort of not letting my end of the box dip. “Carry the dead weight then. Seems to be your specialty.”
We started walking, and our "waltz" was more like a jerky, two-person wrecking ball. If he sped up, I slowed down, dragging my heels until the cardboard groaned under the strain. If I tried to pivot, he braced his weight, his fingers occasionally brushing mine—a brief, electric contact that felt like a spark jumping a gap. He didn't flinch. I just tightened my grip until my knuckles looked carved from chalk.
It was a choreographed struggle for ground. We were two predators sharing a single path, both of us trying to lead the dance and neither willing to cede an inch. I took a wider step, trying to force him toward the wall. He countered by subtly leaning his shoulder into mine, steering us back toward the center of the hall.
“You look at me like I’m the enemy,” he said, his eyes fixed forward while his mouth worked with the sheer effort of keeping the box level despite my best efforts to tip it.
“You’re a Formula One driver,” I countered.
“Same thing,” he muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that wasn't quite a smile.
We reached the end of the hall, and I was preparing one last heave to claim the box for myself when the heavy thud of footsteps echoed from the main corridor.
"Is that him? Did he go this way?" A girl's voice, breathless and way too close.
Dominic’s entire posture shifted in a millisecond—the irritation vanished, replaced by a sharp, tactical alarm. Before I could process the change, he yanked the box forward, nearly taking my arms with it, and used his shoulder to shove the closet door open.
"Get in," he hissed.
"Excuse me? I'm not—"
He didn't wait for the rest of my protest. He stepped into the darkness, dragging the box—and me with it—into the cramped space. He kicked the door shut just as a pair of students rounded the corner, their muffled voices wondering where "the Valerio hottie" had vanished to.
The closet smelled like lemon-scented floor wax and decades of dust. We set the box down with a synchronized, angry thud that probably shook the shelves.
I reached up, my hand trembling slightly from the adrenaline, and yanked the string. The hanging bulb hummed to life, yellow and dim. Dominic was crowding the doorway, his hand braced against the frame. He looked like he was personally offended by the lack of square footage.
“You can leave now,” I said lowly, though it came out sharper than I intended. “Supervision complete. Go be a celebrity somewhere else.”
“I’m not going back out there while they’re hunting for a photo-op,” he muttered. He reached beside him, his fingers brushing the wall as he found the string. He pulled.
The room vanished into black in one clean gulp.
“Wow,” I said into the black. “You really are allergic to charity.”
“I’m not allergic to charity,” his voice came through the dark, closer than before, low and surprisingly sharp. “I’m allergic to tax-write-offs disguised as galas. There’s a difference between helping people and posing for a check that barely covers the cost of the catering.”
My hand found the string. I yanked. The bulb flickered back on—shaky, persistent. Dominic’s face was inches from mine, every angle of him thrown into contrast.
There it was again. That same unwelcome flare catching behind my ribs, only this time it wasn't just a flicker. It was a steady, rhythmic throb that made the air in the tiny room feel heavy and far too still. I couldn't look away, and I couldn't ignore the way my pulse had suddenly decided to sync up with the silence between us.
“You really can’t help yourself, can you?” he murmured, his eyes tracking the movement of my hand.
“Funny. I was thinking the same.”
He reached past me—deliberately close—and tugged the string again.
Dark.
I heard the shape of a smirk in the black. “Better.”
I stepped forward until my chest brushed his, refusing to let him dictate the terms of our confinement. If he wanted to hide in the dark, I was going to make him feel exactly how small this room was. My fingertips slid up the cord, slow and pointed. I pulled.
Light.
His eyes dropped to my mouth for half a breath too long, his pupils doing that traitorous flare again before he pulled at the string.
